


Champion

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, Making Out, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "He unclasps the straps easily, managing the buckle with one-handed grace, and as the secure hold eases to let him free Mittermeyer reaches above him without looking for the pull bar that will let him hoist himself free of the cockpit and into the open air of the hangar." Mittermeyer and Reuenthal take a minute to appreciate the triumph of their teamwork over Ovlesser.
Relationships: Wolfgang Mittermeyer/Oskar von Reuenthal
Kudos: 9





	Champion

Mittermeyer is first out of his armor. It takes at least a half hour to put on the skin-tight pilot suits and maneuver into the cockpit of the mechanized armor without disrupting any one of the multitude of controllers awaiting the guidance of their pilot, but breaking free is a far simpler matter, or at least seems so with the flush of combat adrenaline quivering through the whole of Mittermeyer’s body. He feels invincible, nearly drugged on the thrill of his own survival, and the residual energy of the fight speeds the movements with which he brings his armor to a halt and sets the array of safety precautions to hold it steady so he can disembark. His fingers patter with effortless efficiency, moving on well-trained muscle memory that requires nothing at all of conscious thought to guide them, and the entry hatch above him is unlatching and sliding open even as he thumbs against the last of the power-down sequence and reaches for the harness holding him in place. He unclasps the straps easily, managing the buckle with one-handed grace, and as the secure hold eases to let him free Mittermeyer reaches above him without looking for the pull bar that will let him hoist himself free of the cockpit and into the open air of the hangar.

Mittermeyer moves quickly, emerging from his suit while the last power displays are still flickering with their trailing glow, but Reuenthal is hard on his heels. Mittermeyer still has a hand on the pull bar when the top of Reuenthal’s suit unlatches and hisses with the hydraulics pulling it open, and it’s only in sliding with a reckless haste that disregards the assistance of the steps built into the side of the suit that Mittermeyer lands at the floor before Reuenthal has cleared his cockpit. Mittermeyer doesn’t slow his steps, doesn’t hesitate in his approach, and in the end he had crossed the distance between them and is reaching up to catch a hand at the footholds along the side of Reuenthal’s suit while the other is still pushing his hair back from his face and turning to begin his descent.

“Come down here,” Mittermeyer calls, turning his head up to flash the edge of his grin at Reuenthal. “Or would you prefer to keep me waiting?”

Reuenthal pauses at the top of the suit, one hand still braced at the edge of the cockpit and the other raised to urge back the waves of his dark hair. He cocks his head to the side, his mouth catching on the threat of a smile as his lashes dip shadow over his mismatched eyes. “Are you that impatient?” he asks. “We’re barely out of the fight and you’re hurrying me on to the next thing?”

Mittermeyer’s grin widens and he leans harder against his upraised arm, tipping his head to gaze up at Reuenthal above him. “That’s the whole idea,” he says. “I want to take advantage of the adrenaline of the moment.”

“Ah,” Reuenthal says. “I see. It’s all part of your strategic plan, is it?”

Mittermeyer laughs. “Did you have any doubt?” He steps back from the side of the suit, lifting his hands to gesture Reuenthal towards him as he clears the space at the bottom of the footholds. “Come down, Reuenthal. Unless you have an objection.”

Reuenthal smiles. “I wouldn’t think of it,” he says, and pushes against the edge of the open cockpit to slide himself down the side of the suit. His descent is a little less rapid than Mittermeyer’s, slowed somewhat by the angle of his body and the hold he keeps at the edge of the entry hatch, but it’s still fast enough to fill Mittermeyer’s waiting arms with the lean length of Reuenthal’s body in a matter of seconds, and with his arms closing around Reuenthal’s waist Mittermeyer has no protest to offer at all.

“Ahh,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around Reuenthal and stepping in closer so Reuenthal is caught in Mittermeyer’s embrace even before his feet have fully found the floor. Reuenthal falls back, his shoulders angling to recline against the curved side of the armor, and Mittermeyer follows him, leaning in to press the sleek line of his pilot suit flush against Reuenthal’s own. Mittermeyer bows his head at Reuenthal’s shoulder, turning his face in to breathe against the line of the other’s suit clasping close at the length of his throat. “I love getting you into one of these.”

Reuenthal hums in the back of his throat as his hands come up to press to Mittermeyer’s shoulders, left bare by the sweeping dip of the pilot gear. “Do you?” he asks. “ _I _ prefer getting you out of them.” Mittermeyer laughs, the sound bubbling easy from the electricity of victory coursing through his veins, and Reuenthal smiles and tips his head to the side in an unvoiced invitation that Mittermeyer is happy to accept. He presses a hand into the fall of Reuenthal’s hair, fingers steadying at the side of the other’s head as he rocks up onto his toes and presses his mouth to the edge of Reuenthal’s jawline, and Reuenthal huffs an exhale that ruffles through Mittermeyer’s hair.

“It’s a shame you only wear this when we’re about to go out into a fight,” he says. His palm cups the curve of Mittermeyer’s shoulder; his other hand trails a delicate touch against the open line of the other’s sleeve. “There’s never enough time to properly appreciate the design.”

“I could put it on more often,” Mittermeyer volunteers. Reuenthal’s touch is following the line of his shoulder, tracing the curve of muscle in paths of shivering heat until Mittermeyer finds himself offering the pant of his breathing instead of the press of his lips to the length of Reuenthal’s throat. Reuenthal leans into Mittermeyer’s hand at his hair, urging into the cradle of the other’s palm as he turns his head to touch his lips to a kiss at the inside of Mittermeyer’s wrist, and Mittermeyer groans and stumbles back, urged into motion by the ready pliancy of his body. “If you like it that much.”

“Would you?” Reuenthal asks, his lips still brushing Mittermeyer’s wrist but his gaze dipping sideways through his lashes to drag the promise of heat across the other’s face. Mittermeyer’s chest tightens, struggling to recall the rhythm of breathing that has suddenly dropped from its position as an immediate priority, and when Reuenthal smiles and pushes against him Mittermeyer falls back to take the position sprawled back against the side of the mechanical armor. Reuenthal leans in over him, ducking his head forward as his fingers slide to cradle the back of Mittermeyer’s head, and Mittermeyer tips back into the support of Reuenthal’s touch as the other bows his head to exhale heat across Mittermeyer’s bare shoulder. “You’d wear this for me?”

Mittermeyer recalls himself enough to gasp a breath, exhaling hard as Reuenthal’s free hand curves around his waist. “Yes,” he says. Reuenthal’s mouth touches his skin, lips pressing to settle a kiss against the line of Mittermeyer’s shoulder, and Mittermeyer groans and drops his head back to thud at the side of the armor behind him. “God, yes, of course.”

“You’d go to all the trouble of getting it on,” Reuenthal says, speaking soft like he’s shaping a secret between the drag of his lips and Mittermeyer’s bare skin. Mittermeyer’s hands catch at Reuenthal’s hair, his fingers digging to fists on the dark waves as his back curves in answering heat, and Reuenthal leans in closer, pressing the length of his body flush upon Mittermeyer’s as his mouth prints a languid path across the flex of Mittermeyer’s shoulder. “Seems a lot of effort just to have me take it back off again.”

“Ah,” Mittermeyer gasps, working his fingers in Reuenthal’s hair as he sags back against the support behind him and shuts his eyes to let the friction of Reuenthal’s mouth pressing against his skin take precedence in his attention. “I think it’d be worth it.”

“Mm.” Mittermeyer can feel the vibration of sound against Reuenthal’s lips at his skin, can feel the heat hum through his chest and spark down the length of his spine. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer says, breathless with the energy thrilling through him, and then Reuenthal parts his lips to trace his tongue over Mittermeyer’s skin, dragging startling heat across the other’s body and pulling a groan free from his throat. “ _Oh_ , god,  _ Reuenthal_.”

“Yes,” Reuenthal says, and straightens from his attentions to Mittermeyer’s shoulder. His cheeks are flushed with color to match the heat Mittermeyer can feel glowing across his own face and softening his mouth to a wanting curve. Reuenthal presses his lips tight together, firming his mouth like he’s forcing himself to attention, but Mittermeyer still finds the soft shine of friction clinging to the other’s mouth, and it holds his gaze irrevocably as Reuenthal works his throat on the deliberate effort of a swallow. “We should finish giving our report.”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer says, but he doesn’t loosen his hold on Reuenthal’s hair. “And after?”

Reuenthal’s mouth doesn’t soften from its deliberate pressure, but Mittermeyer is watching the other’s face and he doesn’t miss the dip of Reuenthal’s lashes as his contrasting gaze drops to linger against the mark of his lips pressed to flush against Mittermeyer’s shoulder. He looks for a moment, lingering long enough that Mittermeyer is certain of the intentionality of it, before he lifts his attention to grip Mittermeyer’s own.

“Well,” he says. “We  _ have _ achieved a clear victory. Perhaps our leader can spare us for a half hour.”

Mittermeyer drops a hand from Reuenthal’s hair to the other’s hip. “At least,” he says, and lets his hand follow the sleek fabric of the other’s pilot suit down along the curve of his body. “We’re the heroes of the moment. We could go so far as to ask for a whole hour.” Reuenthal laughs, his composure giving way to easy warmth, and Mittermeyer grins and pulls at the hand in the other’s hair to draw him down and into a lingering kiss before they return to reap the various spoils of their mutual victory.


End file.
